


Preamble

by Pares (kormantic)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Cancer Arc, F/M, My First Fanfic, Season/Series 04, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1997-07-01
Updated: 1997-07-01
Packaged: 2018-09-19 08:11:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9429149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kormantic/pseuds/Pares
Summary: An extended mood piece concerning the cancer arc, mule trains and pictures no one took. My first fanfic effort.





	

Brittle creosote and sharp rocks shimmered under the white glare of noon. The occasional cactus skipped past her window, smeary with speed. Mulder was doing 95, easily. Anchoring her flailing red hair with one hand, Special Agent Dana Scully turned from the open window and glanced at her partner.

The air conditioner had quit somewhere outside of Phoenix, and Fox Mulder's white oxford was wilting, open over his clinging T-shirt. For a man supposedly enjoying a picturesque drive through the desert, he looked curiously tense at the wheel. He caught her eye and smiled.

"Bored of the scenery already?"

Scully returned her eyes to the window, squinting at the flat expanse of rocks and desert vegetation as they sped by. Sighing inwardly, she wished that she had thought to bring sunglasses. Rolling up her window, she flicked idly at the useless dashboard A/C controls of another in a seemingly endless series of bland rental cars. When she saw it in the airport parking lot, a gray four door Ford Taurus, she'd felt like slashing its tires.

Apparently, its current lack of A/C was some form of automobile retribution for such thoughts.

Checking her watch, she tried to settle herself. Ordinarily, she found car trips restful. She enjoyed Mulder's companionable silences as much as she liked their thorough discussions of case developments, but this particular destination was making her anxious. Mulder, noting her squirm, decided it was time for a rest stop. He checked the fuel gauge.

"We need gas."

They pulled into a roadside Kwik-E-Mart. Unfolding himself from the car, Mulder shrugged out of his oxford and draped it on the superheated surface of the car's roof. He rested his hands against the fabric and spread his legs, flexing his aching calves and stretching his thighs. Scully, her hand shading her clear blue eyes, arched a brow.

"You're not going to ask me to frisk you, are you, Mulder?"

He lifted his head and regarded her soberly across the simmering roof of the car.

"You mean I have to ask?" He grinned and straightened up, beating her to the store entrance and holding the door for her. She stepped out of the baking heat into the refrigerated Kwik-E-Mart. It smelled vaguely of Twinkies and gasoline; a limp looking teenager was tending the cashier. As she headed for the bathroom, leaving Mulder to pay for the gas, she noticed a Squishee machine in the corner.

"Hey, Mulder, get me a cherry Squish, would you?" He nodded and she closed the bathroom door behind her.

Turning the tap, Scully splashed some tepid, somehow oily water on her face. She studied her reflection in the spotted steel mirror as she patted her throat dry with a coarse paper towel. Tucking her road-lank hair behind her ears, she decided that the wan florescent light made her look tired. //Not _sick_ , just tired.//

Taking a deep breath, she slowly exhaled through her mouth. Readjusting her collar, Scully smoothed her taupe jacket, clenched and unclenched her hands.

"Okay," she said aloud. She went back out into the store.

At the counter, Mulder was trying on sunglasses.

"What d'ya think, Scully?" He turned to her, his face obscured by a half moon of banana yellow plastic with a single narrow stripe of opaque black lens.

"Definitely you," she answered. Doffing his shades, he handed her her cherry Squishee and tucked a newspaper and two bottled waters under his arm.

"Ready to go?"

She nodded. Once outside again, Mulder presented her with a small oblong box.

"For the lady," he reported. She looked down at it, turning it over in her hands. "Well aren'tcha gonna open it?"

Inside she found a pair of pink plastic sunglasses, festooned with smiling cartoon bunny faces, one on each side.

"You can't be serious."

Mulder did his best to look hurt.

"Hey, those have almost 50% of UV protection!"

She laughed, surprising herself, and pleasing Mulder. Putting them on, she turned to her partner.

"Are they me, Mulder?'

"Absolutely." He opened her car door for her and grinned. Scully paused to adjust her ridiculous sunglasses, and Mulder gave her a worried, appraising look. Her lips were rouged with cherry Squishee, her hair was limp from the open road and the open window, and the Arizona heat flushed her cheeks... She looked wonderful. He allowed himself to feel relieved.

In the car again, Scully scanned the dial three times before settling on an oldies station. After the fifth Neil Sedaka song, she gritted her teeth and punched the off button, remembering why she never listened to the radio on road trips.

Mulder raised his eyebrows at her delicately. "Confess, Scully, your room was plastered with Barry Manilow posters, am I right?"

"Mulder, love songs come in three varieties: proposition, stalker and co-dependent."

"That's why I like 'em." She frowned at him, mouth pursed, and he almost changed the subject; but he was enjoying himself too much. "Why Agent Scully, that's so cynical of you. You're telling me that you don't thrill to the Captain and Tenille?"

She sighed wearily, and stared out the window.

"Wayne Newton? Wait-- Elvis. Who can doubt the sincerity of a fat man in a rhinestone leisure suit?"

"Face it, Mulder, there's a pick-up line at the heart of every single."

Mulder raised a warning hand. "With the exception of the Gospel Albums," he cautioned.

"With the exception of the Gospel Albums," she conceded.

Inexplicably, Scully's mood had changed. Sometimes, when he wasn't obsessing about past lives or alien abductions, Mulder could be a lot of fun. Her anxiety had eased; the remainder of the car trip went quickly, although without musical accompaniment.

*

Once in the hospital parking lot, Scully's apprehension returned. She looked up to see Mulder holding the car door open for her again, and found his action suddenly patronizing.

"I'm not an invalid, Mulder," she muttered, stepping from the car.

He gave no sign of having heard her.

The lobby doors swished open-- and she paused. The doors waited patiently for her entrance, as did Mulder.

At length, his voice low, he said, "What?"

"I just hope this is worth it." She stopped, feeling Mulder's eyes on her like a tangible weight: two coins, warm from someone's hand, glancing against the skin of her cheek.

Mulder placed a hand on the shoulder nearest to him, very lightly.

"Scully, Dr. Aveli is a trend setter with a remarkable success rate, and as far as we can tell, she's not on Cancerman's payroll." She saw him wince as soon as he heard himself say it.

Scully began to regret not asking her mother to come with her here after all. She wasn't sure that she could be brave enough for the both of them-- Mulder was more fragile than he looked. Sighing, she nodded for Mulder's benefit and walked into the lobby.

It was cool and spare, but somehow welcoming. A tall woman with dark hair and a clipboard approached them, smiling.

"May I help you?"

"Yes, please, I'm Dana Scully--" She remembered that she was still wearing her bunny glasses and yanked them off. Smiling apologetically at the nurse and shooting a seething glance at Mulder, who merely studied the nurse with polite interest, she continued. "I have an appointment with Dr. Aveli."

The woman checked her board, nodding.

"Please, come this way."

*

Two hours later, Scully had dressed again and walked back into the waiting room. Mulder was thumbing a magazine on outdoor life and making soft spitting sounds. Sunflower seeds.

"How'd it go?" His brows were knitted, his mouth tense.

Scully reported that it would be a couple of days. "Tests," she sighed, massaging the back of her neck. "Let's get to the hotel. I want to take a shower and get some sleep before dinner."

Jingling his keys, Mulder leaned toward her and grinned, "If I make it to the hotel without getting pulled over, I'll buy you dinner."

*

She knocked on his door about 7 or so.

"Mulder?"

"Come in," was the muffled response. She found him sprawled on the bed, with the remote in his hand. "Just in time for The People's Court." He patted the mattress beside him invitingly.

Ignoring him, she asked, "Did you want to get something to eat?"

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and bent down to slip his sneakers on. Looking up at Scully, he coaxed, "Sure you don't want to catch Judge Wapner, Scully? It's 'The Case of the Pilfered Pooch.'" He waggled his eyebrows and finished tying his shoes. "Feel like Mexican?"

*

At the table in El Tortilla's, (low light, plaster cacti and hapless waitresses in ungainly ruffled skirts) Mulder was wolfing his spinach quesadilla.

Swallowing, he asked, "Did you want to catch a movie or something afterward? I think the new Ridley Scott flick just opened up."

"I don't think so, Mulder," Scully replied, mentally rolling her eyes. "Let's see how I feel after I eat."

Mulder seemed jittery. He kept glancing at her over his water glass. Scully found herself reflexively checking her shirt.

"What? Did I spill some salsa?" She dabbed vaguely at her chin with her napkin.

"Nothing. It's just-- I can't actually remember the last time I saw you in jeans and a T-shirt." It was true; even for her doctor's appointment, Scully had worn a suit.

She smiled. "That's because you've never seen me on vacation before."

"That's right. This is a vacation," he said slyly. "So, you want a beer?"

She shook her head. "But I will split a pitcher of strawberry Margaritas with you."

*

Scully had about a Margarita and a half before she lost interest. Mulder, who'd barely made a pretense of drinking his, had glazed over, and was now very still.

"What is it, Mulder?" He ignored her. "Mulder?"

He turned his head a fraction of an inch, his attitude distant.

"Do you hear that?"

She paused. "Hear what?" She found herself straining for the hum of an unearthly engine, or gunshots, or--

He stood and took her wrist. "There's a honky-tonk across the street. Hank Williams, Shania Twain--" He slapped his hand on his long thigh. "Whooo doggie! Wanna go play some pool?"

Scully grinned.

*

The woman at the table next to theirs, a tired-eyed creature with spiky bleached hair, was very drunk. In fact, Scully could smell the alcohol from where she sat. Wrinkling her nose, she watched Mulder tense for his shot.

"15 in the corner pocket," he murmured. The ball obliged him and he waved cheerfully at Scully, who was nursing a Coke and a two game lead. But Mulder was coming into his own. If he got this next shot, he'd win.

The woman to her left leaned over and slurred something.

"Excuse me?"

"... said your boyfriend's gorgeous."

Scully gave her a bright, phony grin. "Thanks, but he's my brother." She turned back to watch Mulder take his shot. The lush blinked at her and returned to her vodka. Scully allowed herself the luxury of a long look. There was Mulder, bent over the table, his long fingers steady as the cueball rammed the 8 ball home, jeans riding low on those tapered hips... Yup. Gorgeous, top to toe. But not her type.

Historically, Scully had dated men who did exactly what she wanted them to do. Typically, grounded men with drab big money jobs and basic good looks. Stable, steady, self-sufficient. Boring. Setting her Coke down, she clapped politely as Mulder swiveled his hips and stroked his hair back a silent victory dance.

"I was just letting you win," he crowed, dropping into the chair beside her.

Scully smiled in concession. Mulder offered her his cue.

"You break. I'll try to go easy on you."

* * *

Scully tucked her hair behind her ears and closed one eye to judge the ball. She was still flushed from the tequila, and the warm yellow light gleamed on her hair. He smiled at her fondly-- it was nice to see her so relaxed. Even on their video nights, she had only occasionally removed her suit jacket or kicked off her pumps. In jeans and sandals and a skinny tee she seemed almost a different person. Much more approachable than the businesslike Dana he was used to.

The woman to his left, god she was smashed, said thickly, "Your sister's beautiful."

"My sister?" He felt a dull jolt, but it passed-- it passed-- and he blinked at Scully, with her bright hair. She was standing on tip toe to reach the ball, and she wore the look of focused concentration that he had come to love.

"She sure is." And he was not the only one who thought so. Now and again, some old boy would send a drink over. She would smile, wave toward her patron and send the drink on to the blonde.

After five games, Scully ahead by one, she suggested that they get back to the hotel.

"You just didn't want me to catch up, " he teased as they strolled toward the restaurant parking lot.

"Actually, I wanted to take a swim. It's a perfect night for it and I haven't been swimming-- well for fun anyway-- in ages. Feel like joining me?"

"Sure."

* * *

Scully, in a sleek black one-piece, was perched on the coping, her feet in the pool. At this hour, the deck was deserted and quiet, but for the gentle lapping of the water.

He sat down beside her, and leaned back on his arms. Her backless swimsuit framed a smooth expanse of skin silvered by moonlight, and--

"Scully-- wow. So that's your tattoo?"

She automatically turned her head, craning to see it. "Yup. That's it."

"Can I see it?"

In answer, she turned her back more fully to him, and he placed his fingertips against the small of her back, tracing the circle of her tattoo lightly. After a moment, he withdrew his hand, and slipped into the pool. Spreading his arms, he rose to the surface of the water.

Scully smiled at his calm floating body, and the Speedo that left so little to the imagination. She had always figured Mulder for a trunks kind of guy... //I guess when you've got it, flaunt it.// And have it he did. Those long thighs, the smooth stomach, the intriguing little trail of hair disappearing into his suit...

Maybe the tension and the tequila had gotten to her more than she'd thought. She and Mulder swam the length of the pool, even strokes, side by side for a while. Closing her eyes, she drifted after the tenth lap, letting the water lull her.

"Scully, I'm going in." She nodded silently, listening to him slosh out of the pool and drip on the pavement. Inhaling the pool's nostalgic fragrance of chlorine and sunblock, her hair a mermaid cloud around her head, Scully was reminded of the base community centers and the YMCA's she'd frequented with her brothers and sister as a child.

"I'll be in in a little while, Mulder."

"Yell if you need anything."

A few minutes later, reluctantly, Scully climbed out of the warm water.

Passing Mulder's door, she saw his light was out. She heard the low murmur of the television. She knew that he frequently slept with the TV on, and that he slept harder than someone who was so overtly neurotic would seem to be able to. This, too, she knew from experience. He wasn't often late to work, but he slept in some weekends until 2 PM.

She was tapping on his door before she thought better of it.

He answered almost immediately, a towel around his waist. //Over his Speedo? Or out of the shower?//

"Mulder-- I just wanted to thank you. I had a really nice time today."

"So did I. We should take all our vacations together."

She laughed.

*

In her bed, knees drawn up to her chin, Scully considered two things: her fear for her own health and well being, and her increasingly undeniable attraction toward her partner.

She was still shivering from his near-smarting touch at the poolside. //Maybe it's just any contact at all, Scully. Face it, it's been a long time for you. Years.//

But the last man she had touched-- she shuddered. Ed Jerse, driven mad by a psychotropic tattoo, had very nearly killed her. Automatically, her hand went to the small of her back, grazing that circle. The snake eating its own tail... Why had she chosen it? Sometimes she couldn't remember. She couldn't even feel it anymore. For several weeks after getting it, she had imagined she that she could, a cool metallic presence against her skin, like a belt buckle or bracelet. But now it was something she had to strain to see in a mirror. Until Mulder had run his fingers over it. Now she felt a residual tingle-- one she most closely associated with Joe Namath commercials for Flexall 454: a mentholated cool burn, spreading like a ring in a pond, inexorably, over her body and centering somewhere low in her belly...

In retrospect, hadn't something about Ed reminded her of Mulder? Not his face, but something about his internal struggle, his near desperation... a vulnerability she had almost fallen prey to.

She flopped on the bed, turning to her other side.

Scully sometimes felt, that for all Mulder's cool expertise and sometimes maddening confidence that it was just a veneer-- that he was much needier than he would ever let on. Of course the same was true of her, wasn't it? Of everyone?

Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that even the relationship they already had took more out of her than it did him.

//Admit it, Scully, being Mulder's rock can be a fucking drag.// It had a gratifying side effect, however: she was always at her best, her bravest, when in his company. But that constant overdrive was wearing. She knew that there had been times, especially lately, when she had been close to resenting him. As if it were his fault that she felt she always had to be the good soldier, the reassuring voice, the adult. She sighed noisily.

She abruptly hated her job, hated what her life had become-- she was a medical doctor, a federal agent, how much was enough? Who was she proving herself to? Her father? She wondered just how much of her life at this lonely moment in an empty bed was due to her constant drive to exceed one man's expectations.

Wait. She amended that. //That's so Nineties, Scully. Blaming your parents.// Not one man's expectations, but every man's, and her own as well.

And now her illness was making even Mulder behave differently towards her. As a doctor, it was something she had seen before: the desire to make a saint of the terminal patient, to downplay the flaws of the loved one and ignore things like the fact that chemotherapy made one irritable and frequently unpleasant. No more roughhouse camaraderie, but proprietary airs and patronizing handling. Her new status as near-martyr was not helping her relate to Mulder. Or anyone else for that matter.

She felt a twinge of guilt at her mother's probable reaction to this trip with Mulder. She could see her mother's wide, dark eyes: 'Why won't you let me help you, Dana?' A fair question... And one that she didn't really have an answer for.

Hugging her knees to her chest, she felt a sudden ticklish rolling in her loins //Your loins, Dana? And where, precisely, in Gray's Anatomy, are the loins?// recalling Mulder's touch, and she closed her eyes, digging her fingernails into her palm. Exhausted, she willed herself to sleep.

*

"We're on vacation, Mulder," she reminded him. "No little green men, okay?"

He fixed a brief and speculative frown at the rows of figurines, just a flicker, but enough to remind her of his colorblindness. It made her wonder if he knew what color her hair was.

"But this is foosball! C'mon, you kicked my ass at air hockey, let me regain some dignity. You can be red," he promised in a little sing song.

She cocked her head and grinned at him. "Alright, but just one game. I want to sit down before the ice cream melts."

They were at a student union for a local community college: cheap beer and pizza, pool, darts, air hockey, ping pong and of course, foosball.

"A veritable gamers paradise," he'd announced with a flourish.

Scully had suspected that Mulder had been letting her win, but by the end of their sixth game of Air Hockey, he'd looked genuinely irked.

Although she had rather enjoyed his vexation, Scully was prepared to take pity on him at foosball. It had been a long day of trail walking and sight seeing, and she just wanted her hot fudge sundae and a warm bath. But her streak persisted, and she defeated him, without even really paying attention.

Spooning a ripple of hot fudge, Mulder complained peevishly.

"Beginners luck," he opined. Scully found herself smiling at him hugely, suddenly abuzz with wellbeing.

He noticed it, and smiled back helplessly. He had never seen this particular wattage of her girlish charm.

She had purposely avoided alcohol, but she felt punchy anyway. Too much sun, she figured. But whatever it was, she felt good, and she closed her eyes and listened to the murmur of college kids around her and felt young and safe. She could make out a Jimi Hendrix song on the jukebox: that blurry ringing guitar. //Foxy Mulder.//

"I'm comin' ta getcha," she murmured. Her eyes flew open, startled.

Mulder's eyes lit up. "I'd never have picked you for a Hendrix fan."

"I went to highschool with a lot of hippie kids. My dad was stationed in California for a while," she supplied. "I used to have stacks of Dead bootlegs--" she leaned forward, a wry smile playing on her lips; she was ridiculously pleased to see him automatically lean toward her in return. This was, she realized, something she had always liked about Mulder-- when he listened, he really _listened_. She decided to savor it, and even lowered her voice so that he'd lean in closer-- which he did. "-- I gave them all away to this stoner my freshman year in college. Because I'd never liked them. The Dead, I mean," she amended, "not the hippies."

Delicious. He reminded her of the exchange students she'd known in highschool, the careful way they had watched her speak. She had always found it charming-- seductive. She had a flash of Stephan, her junior year, in the stuffy band room, his light hair matted with sweat from marching, cheeks rosy, Saxophone slung around his neck, his eyes trained unswervingly on her mouth-- his sudden dip to kiss her, so briefly. Peach fuzz and sweat-- then-- she blinked. The room swam briefly in her vision. Mulder was wearing that same intent //unconsciously sexy// look; it made her want to stroke his lips with the pad of her forefinger... //Easy, Scully.//

"Bedtime," she said distinctly.

Mulder started, something flashing in his eyes. She grinned-- for a moment she thought of those speed reading machines she'd had as a kid, where the word whizzed past a tiny plastic window, all but unreadable, but provocative all the same.

"I'm exhausted," she clarified.

"Must be all that winning," he chuckled.

"Bitter, Mulder?" She almost winked at him.

"Nah," he drawled. "I don't mind losin'. To you."

She felt herself blush helplessly, glad for the camouflage her sunburn afforded, and forced herself to play along.

"That's mighty kindly of you, stranger."

"Stranger, huh," Mulder sniffed. "And here I thought I was a legend in these parts."

Scully paused; Mulder's eyes had darkened momentarily, as if she had hurt him.

"Guess what, Mulder: as runner up, you get the honor of driving the winner back to her fabulous hotel." She stood up and offered him her hand. He looked up at her strangely, eventually raising his arm, and she hauled him to his feet. Grinning suddenly, he handed her the keys.

"No way am I going to ferry a hustler. You can drive."

*

She heard a knock at her door around eleven.

"Feel up for another swim, Scully?" Mulder was more modestly attired in shorts this time, a towel over his shoulder.

He reached out to dab at the bluish cream on her nose before thinking about it.

"Actually," she said evenly, stepping back from him, "I was just going to watch a movie and re-hydrate." //And hope the bunnyshaped tanline around my eyes will fade by morning.//

"What's the movie?" he asked as he shouldered past to see the film in question.

"An old Hitchcock thriller," she replied as she closed the door and turned to frown at him, mouth pursed slightly.

"Spellbound," he pronounced immediately, settling at the foot of her bed. "Ingrid Bergman. She was my ideal in the tenth grade," he added, eyes never leaving the screen.

"I would have thought Pamela Anderson more your speed."

"Only Bergman could be come hither in glasses and a lab coat."

// _I_ have glasses and a lab coat, dammit.//

She distracted herself from her sudden peevishness by picturing a scene featuring Bergman's co-star in a turtle necked sweater, so tall, yet vulnerable, eyes dark with need.... She felt it unnecessary to confess her own highschool crush on Gregory Peck.

Eyes clearing, he tipped his chin up to regard Scully. "What's that stuff on your face?"

Flustered, Scully made a conscious effort not to let her hand fly to the cream on her skin. "It's for sunburn," she replied calmly, congratulating herself on her restraint. Not that he had any right to ask, inviting himself in like that. She was almost relieved; anger was something she was confident in her ability to control.

"You look a little singed yourself, Mulder. Want some?"

He squinted at her cheerfully. "I'm working on a 'Clint Eastwood' look. I need sun damage to achieve that trademark steely glare," he explained, even as he reached for the cream and smoothed some on the bridge of his long nose.

Scully was still standing, arms crossed, and they watched the movie for a moment. Mulder handed her the tube back and got to his feet.

"I think I'm going to take a dip and turn in."

"You'll wash the aloe gel right off," she said, faintly amused. Before he could shrug, she added, "Maybe I'll join you after all. Give me a minute to change."

*

This time it was Mulder who lingered; she sat on a chaise and watched him lap the pool, the moonlight skittering on his gleaming back, listening to the expulsion of air and sharp inward gasps, the rhythmic sound of churning water. //He's been swimming steadily for twenty minutes; isn't he tired yet?//

As if in answer, Mulder paused mid-stroke and lifted his head, burbling noisily, and shaking his hair out of his eyes.

She regarded him as he pulled himself out of the pool. Keeping her eyes on the wet prints glistening on the white concrete as he drew alongside of her, Scully noticed his feet: wide and powerful, quite handsome, really, long toes, shapely ankles... and according to his surprisingly narrow footprints, unusually high arches. He sat down and stretched his legs before him, and she wondered idly if he had any foot problems as she gazed at the broad pad of the sole of his foot, glazed by the light of the moon, tapering to a narrow peninsula at the arch, rather like an island scalloped into a c-shape by the eroding sea.

She smiled in the darkness. Mulder leaned his head back and regarded the sky.

"It's beautiful out here," he said, and she nodded, feeling languid and peaceful. They said nothing for some time, and Scully felt her eyelids droop. She dimly heard Mulder rise from his creaking lounge, and could almost feel the weight of his shadow as he bent over her, two fingers on her shoulder.

"Scully, let's go to bed," she heard him say. //Yes, let's.// She stirred, lifting her chin.

"Mmmm-- What is it, Mulder?"

"It's way past your bedtime, young lady." He was smiling down at her; she felt a drop from his hair fall on her shoulder, and she started, sitting up abruptly, clipping Mulder in the chin.

"Ow!"

She clapped a hand to the top of her head, laughing suddenly.

"I'm sorry, Mulder," she said, climbing out of her chair.

"Jeez, Scully, ya tryin' ta kill me?" His lip gleamed in the moonlight, and Scully immediately frowned, taking his arm.

"Come into the light, Mulder," she instructed, drawing him toward the lamp hanging over her door. "Let me take a lip at that I mean a look at that lip," she corrected hurriedly.

"I bit it when you knocked into me," he said, his words sibilant with pain and blood.

"I'm sorry about that, Mulder." Her fingers danced over his full lower lip and he winced.

"Let me rinse it off and we'll see if you need stitches," she sighed, leading him into her hotel room.

She watched him cup water against his injured lip and suppressed the desire to help him. In the incisive glare of the bathroom light, the wound seemed exceedingly minor.

"You'll live," she decreed.

"Promise?" He peered into the mirror, prodding gently at it.

"I promise. And I apologize. Now why don't you go get some rest."

"Lucky for you I don't sleep on my face."

"Mmm. Goodnight, Mulder." She ushered him to the door.

He paused just outside, gazing at her, as if puzzled.

"Sweet dreams, Scully," he said, finally.

"You too," she answered.

And after a second, he went in.

*

Mulder found her in the shade of an umbrella on the restaurant patio the next morning, eating breakfast and reading a book. Nicking a piece of toast from her plate, he bent his head to see the title.

" _Pilgrim at Tinker Creek_." She could tell he recognized it. "I read _An American Childhood_ last year."

"You've read Annie Dillard? An essayist? I'm impressed, Mulder. As far as I know she hasn't written a single article on alien abductees."

He gave her a sour look, and licked some strawberry jam from his thumb. Scully was mesmerized; her palate ached: she could feel the ridge of his nail, the pad of his thumb pressing against her tongue, her lips closing around the swell of his knuckle...

"What?"

"I said, are you going to eat that?" He was pointing to an increasingly soggy bowl of bran flakes by her fork.

"No. You can have it." She returned her eyes to her page resolutely, but not even Dillard's lucid prose could hold her concentration. Jesus, this must be that sexual peak thing that she was always reading about at checkout lines and in the clippings her mother was always sending her about her biological clock, despite her Medical degree. Scully realized with a pang that those clippings had stopped coming. Sighing, she let her eyes rest again on Mulder, who had made short work of the cereal and was now reciting what seemed to be half the menu to an aging latina waitress. He felt her eyes on him and grinned sheepishly.

"All that swimming made me hungry."

She gave him an ironic quirk of her eyebrows in answer. After the waitress had left, Mulder clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly.

"So, what are we doing today? Mule train?"

"Mule train?" she repeated. "I was going to read today, maybe go for a swim later."

"Well, I don't usually like to mix my rest with my relaxation, but..." He rose from the table and disappeared. She watched him go, and he returned shortly, holding several files. He placed them on the seat beside him, and picked one up and reviewed it as he lifted a dripping forkful of pancake to his mouth from the plate that had been set there during his brief absence.

"I see you brought a little light reading of your own," she said, nodding to the sheaf of paper. He looked somehow meek.

"Look, Mulder, it's your vacation, too, and if you want to spend your day on a ponyride, then go right ahead." She tried to give him a smile, in order to downplay her irritation.

"What about your follow-up?" he said, face still, voice soft.

//At least he hasn't forgotten why we're here.//

"Aveli called this morning. I have an appointment to discuss the results with her at two."

"Do you want me to go with you?"

"Thanks, Mulder, but I think I'd rather do this alone."

He nodded slowly.

She tried hard to sound jovial.

"Really, you should catch the mule train. We can meet for dinner and I'll tell you how it went." His eyes were inscrutable. "Please, Mulder."

"I'll bring you a souvenir," he promised as he took another bite of his breakfast and pushed back his chair. He stared a moment at the nearly untouched meal spread before him, then picked up his files and made his way back to his room. Scully reviewed the laden plates as well, suddenly morose. She decided to charge the whole mess to her own account, and blinking fiercely, she returned to her book.

* * *

Mulder's ass was killing him. His knees felt sprung and he suspected that he was chafed in uncomfortably delicate places; he had come close to shucking his jeans for the ride home, but didn't want to think about the kind of looks such behavior would garner from Scully-- or any cops for that matter. He glanced at the speedometer and eased his foot from the gas pedal.

On the Ford's gray dash was Scully's souvenir: a picture of a squinting, sunburned Mulder set against a supremely blue and cloudless sky, clinging to the back of a burro that seemed, in retrospect, absurdly small. His knees nearly met his chin, and although he was smiling fixedly, both he and the doll-sized burro looked suspiciously bored. He realized that, outside of the macabre private gallery of the X-files, he didn't have any pictures of her, no pictures of them together...

He'd spent most of the trip down the narrow pass to the bottom of Frick's Canyon trying to stay atop his mount, and replaying every contented look or laugh he'd ever managed to prize from Scully in their four years together. Grinning, he figured he'd doubled his collection in the space of two days. But Mulder felt, knew, that their relationship had changed somehow.

Even as he'd been at breakfast covertly ogling Scully in khaki shorts and a pale sleeveless buttondown-- no stockings, he'd noticed. He'd found himself mildly entranced by the freckles on her knees... Until remembering that the test results were due back today. A reminder of the new tension that had elbowed its gangly way between them.

It wasn't his attraction to her; that was something he was intimately familiar with-- this he had no name for. Other than fear. This tumor wasn't something you could persuade or threaten or blackmail; it was something he was powerless to protect her from, and the thought left him feeling naked and useless in a way he hadn't felt with such intensity or insistence since his sister's abduction.

Mulder cringed at his petulance at breakfast. He'd been hurt by what he had interpreted as her attempt to keep him out of her hair. A mad impulse to blow up at her, to tell her how upset he was with her, that he was angry that she wouldn't let him help her, furious with her _for being sick_ , had made his stomach cramp. He banged the heel of his hand against the steering wheel, made a bitter explosive sound. He scrubbed his face with his hands, and his palms felt moisture.

He gradually realized that the convertible behind him had been honking for some time and took his foot off the brake; dinner was getting cold.

Mulder had been unable to read her tone on the cell phone; she had agreed readily to Chinese takeout and he hadn't been able to think up a sufficient reason to keep her on the line long enough to assess her mood. As he approached her room, he noticed that her door was slightly open-- He shoved the takeout on to one of the plastic tables and crept to the doorway. All he could see was darkness. His hand went automatically to his hip-- meeting only the bulge of his wallet in his jeans pocket. He cursed his own idiocy and dismissed the thought of going back to his room to retrieve it-- every moment counted. He mentally ticked away the amount of time that had passed since he'd asked her what she'd wanted for dinner.

Opening the door silently, he slipped into her room, listening-- the shower. The shower was running. Straining for other sounds, movement, he edged through the bedroom, jeans scraping agonizingly against his abraded inner thighs, wishing wildly that he had gone back to get his gun-- He felt a crunch beneath his foot. Kneeling, he found a thin flake of-- something, slightly sticky. In the half light, he noted that it was the same peachy taupe that Scully sometimes wore-- //On her nails, her nails, Jesusfuck!// He felt his mouth go dry.

"Scully!" he croaked, eyes wide. His mind was flooded with awful stills: of Scully with her eyes swelled shut, her scalp bleeding-- a hideous panorama of every injury she'd sustained during their partnership, his mind settled fixedly on a mordant closeup of her face: blue eyes wide and dull and filling with water. All this in the instant it took him to bound to the bathroom door and force it with his shoulder-- to find Scully in the shower. As the door burst open, she gave an inarticulate shout. He froze.

She frowned at him. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I... I thought-- your door was open. And-- and I found this..." He trailed off, looking absently at the flake in his hand-- no blood. Just a piece of plastic. He remembered himself and turned his back to her abruptly. He heard her move behind him-- the sound of water changed as it hit her body in different angles. He listened to the screak of the tap as she turned it off, the frosted glass door open. //It's got scalloped abstract designs, random panes of clear glass-- you made some crack about them when we came in...// Those clear panes had given him a tantalizing, if disjointed, impression of her skin. He heard her pull her robe on.

Mulder thought suddenly of her stance when he'd crashed in: feet wide, shoulders back. To confront him. He almost smiled, but the shame creeping up the back of his neck killed the impulse.

Scully, her hair plastered to her head, peered around his arm.

"That's a fake nail, Mulder," she pointed out. She held out her hands for him, still behind his line of sight. Her turned to face her, but he couldn't read her expression; her tone was equally neutral. She could very easily have been seething at him-- and just not choosing to let him in on it.

"I broke a nail the other day. That one fell off. Cheap glue," she explained. Her right thumbnail looked torn and raw. //Congratulations, Mulder. You're a complete asshole.//

Mulder found it suddenly difficult to raise his eyes from the green and white tiled floor.

"Mulder," she said, placing a hand high on his back, near his shoulder. "I appreciate your concern. I just didn't happen to need any help. This time."

He felt weak with gratitude.

"However," she continued, and Mulder tensed again. "I would appreciate it more if you got out of my bathroom so I could finish rinsing my hair."

He managed to meet her eyes. Her gaze was cool and her mouth pursed. Focusing on the promise of humor in the quirking corner of her mouth, Mulder did his best to be accommodating, and closed the bathroom door behind him.

*

By the time she had emerged from her hotel room, Mulder had already decimated his portion of Five Flavored Pork. Sitting at the white plastic table, Scully wordlessly sampled a forkful from the box; she shook her head and pointed to the cashew chicken. He let her eat, and tried to focus on the slivers of carrot on his plate. Glumly, he noted that she was in flannel pajamas and a robe. //Modeling the latest in Invalid Fashion is Special Agent Dana Scully, battling an inoperable brain tumor and coy in pink striped jammies and cozy terry robe...// Realizing that she had caught him looking, he raised his head, hoping that he looked supportive rather than desperate.

"Mulder, I..." She couldn't seem to keep her eyes on him; she toyed with her chicken. "It wasn't good news," she said flatly.

Mulder felt himself push his chair back before he thought about it, but Scully raised a warning hand, and it held him in his place.

"It's not all that much worse than I was expecting either, and she gave me a referral to a Dr.--" Deep breath. "A Dr. Scanlon. Aveli says he's had success in cases like mine. So I've got a fighting chance. A good chance."

Her lack of inflection made the Fear leap up in him wildly.

//Scully, what am I going to do without you?//

"Scully..." he began; but he had nothing to say. Tracing the white frame of his trail photo with a chopstick, Mulder watched the light bleed from the sky as the sun sank on the horizon, and felt their vacation evaporate in the desert air around them.

* * *

Scully looked out into the brush, saw a quail bob under a low shrub. The fading sun gilded Mulder's face, turning his ears a lambent coral; the fine blond hairs on the pinna glowed like filaments. She couldn't stand the silence.

"When the sun sets, Mulder, what colors do you see?"

Mulder lifted his chin, paused to gather an answer. "A lot of orange. Purple."

She rested her chin on her hand, elbow on the table. He let his eyes rake the pavement. Scully climbed out of her chair and stood behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders. He reached up to close his fingers around her wrist and squeezed briefly.

Briefly, Scully considered allowing Mulder to comfort her, spoon against her in her narrow hotel bed, snore against her hair...

Slipping out of Mulder's grip and wondering at her own motives, Scully rejected even the idea. She was too weak, or too strong and she could not decide which.


End file.
